As I Lay Dying
by Didier Levy
Summary: Molly Magwitch, wife of Pip's mysterious benefactor, is confronted by rumors of her husband's infidelity. In this story, set to the timeline of Great Expectations, she suffers the consequences of her decisions, discovers friendship and uncovers the truth.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **

**So, this is my first official fanfic, a project I did some years ago in Freshman Honors English after our class finished reading Great Expectations. I recently dug it out of an old box, whilst cleaning and getting ready to leave for college. I spent some time reviewing and broke it up into chapters...This, obviously, is chapter one. If I recieve substantial reviews (meaning one or two, as I've noticed not many people frequent the GE pages, haha) , updates will come, as, technically, this story is completed. I just want to hold you all in suspense and not post all the chapters at once (insert evil laugh).**

Hobey Ho, let's go!  
**_______________**

I punched her, hard. She had taken my husband, my lover, the father of my daughter, and had brought about in him a change I never could. She would pay. What an affront, an insult, her lust after my husband. I would deal with him later, for he had sparked my anger at least as much as she, the naïve Marian. If Compeyson wasn't really behind this entire scheme to split us up, I would kill her. And if I could find him, that malevolent scoundrel who used and betrayed us, I would offer him the same courtesy.

"Ugh," she moaned from her spot on the straw covered ground, roiling from the beating I was delivering. Dark, slowly rotting wooden walls enclosed us. There was a hole in the roof of the barn revealing a starlit patch of sky, veiled by dim clouds and a streak of London fog. It shimmered, almost as an opening to heaven. Grim mosses of grey shades and ivy grew between bricks and mortar, feeding on whatever sustenance short of sunlight they could find, for it seemed to me that this place was interminably dark and dimly lit. My eyes were blinded and I realize, now, my blood lust for her pain and pleading, and I see, now, how the accident happened. I had never meant to kill her.

Exacting my revenge was beginning to have an obvious effect upon her. Marian, at least the gypsy woman I remember, was stronger and younger in body and mind than she appeared that night. Maybe the combination of my fury and our shadowy surroundings sapped her tenacity. Maybe deep within, she knew she was guilty of unforgiveable wrongs. Maybe her emotional remorse put a stopper to her physical strength. Whatever the case, she gasped for air and groped at the ground.

I stood there, panting before her, watching her pathetic attempt to gain some footing against me. I was reaching the end of my limits as well; this fight was coming to an end, I knew, and soon. She had, already, a broken arm, at least, and was bleeding from several gashes. From her labored breathing and the obvious toll her wounds would cost to heal in the coming months, a toll to be paid in sleepless nights and pain filled days, I could tell my compulsion had been sated. I could depart and rest assured my vengeance was complete. I turned to leave, rotating my back to the whimpering silk clad figure on the floor.

A sudden swish of fabric alighted in the air. From behind me, Marian grabbed my wrist, sinking her gypsy nails deep into my skin.

"Ahhh!" I cried loudly, cursing myself, knowing it would be overheard and draw the attentions of unwanted eyes and ears. I sobbed as her fingers and nails cut at my tendons and veins. I bled profusely and fell to my knees, tears soaking my linen uniform. I kicked her chin behind me. She fell back once again, momentarily disabled but still not conceding defeat.

She kicked and punched at the air, aiming for me but hitting only the flies that buzzed over the pools of sweat and blood left in the wake of our scuffle. I stood from bended knee, walked over to her and grabbed her by the neck, subtly choking. I had enough knowledge to discern what would be deadly from what would not, and enough control to hold her as close as I could to the edge between.  
She leered repulsively at me with her amber eyes, either deep pools of sorrow and regret or cesspools of lust, thirsty to take my life by her hands. Which she was feeling I still could not decipher, though I leaned toward the latter.

Her dark black, slightly graying hair was woven in tussles and strands, flowing haphazardly across her face and down her neck. She appeared aged here, not the woman I had begun to fight twenty minutes prior, but an old woman, fit for an old man. Abel was not old, at least not in spirit; of that much I was certain.

Her dark skin, glistening with blood and sweat, turned white where my hands were clutching it, likely from the pressure I exerted. She stared daringly and gasped again, a desperate clutch at a sustaining breath.

"Stay 'way from my Abe, ou' daughta', and ma'self as well, or on any honor I've left in me, on the blood we shed 'ere, I swear to kill you." I released my grip on her and allowed air to once again flow through her neck. I put my other hand to the back of her head and grabbed her hair. Pulling her up to face me, spit in her face, then threw her to the ground.

I stumbled away, leaving the barn and leaving my blood lust, my anger, my resentment, hate, and rage to float away into the night air. It took all I had to keep from falling to the ground. Of course, that made it easier for Marian to rise and lunge at my backside as I stepped away.

I fell on my face, gripping my torn wrist as she pummeled my back, using her last reserves of energy. I rolled over face her as we wrestled and I threw her off to my right. Somewhere in the few seconds between throwing Marian off and her landing back to the ground, I realized, with dread, where her head was to fall.

A rock, some slate dyed obsidian black, sat sharpened, pointing up from the floor. Most likely a left over tool, I had no faculty for its intended use, though I may say with unquestionable certainty I never intended for it to kill Marian.

With a thud slickened by blood, the point found her left temple. Marian's eyes opened wide in a shocked, glazed over but nonetheless piercing stare that held my irises prisoner. The light brown had drained and the left over shade that filled her once lively eyes was only that color something turns when it knows it is dying. Her limbs fell limp and still. Her hold on my eyes relaxed.

She went cold.


	2. Chapter 2

I collapsed in grief and sorrow, and most guiltily, relief. The Marian I had known, loved and treated as my sister, she was dead as the result of my inability to control my anger. I cried and cried as remorse for the unnecessary death I had caused flooded my body. I felt a mountainous guilt in even thinking that had she stayed on the floor, let me leave instead of attacking, she would have lived. It was I who was responsible. I should never have chased her. I should never have confronted her. I remained this way, broken in both body and mind, until Abel arrived.

"Ma' God, Molly. Wha' 'ave ya' done?" He whispered to himself, looking at Marian and then at me, knowing I was not capable of such evil, yet unable to ignore the pool of blood at his feet. He saw me, almost unconscious in my sadness and my pain, and came over to me.

"Ya' righ' 'nuff ta walk?" He asked, his green eyes deep with caring and understanding as brought me up as I nodded in reply. I stood in my washer maid's uniform, dirty and soaked, his solid, grim, but loving face looking at me in pity. But it was I who pitied him, for he scorned me and was foolish enough to think I would so easily forget.

As soon as I was standing, whatever audacity I had left I used to swing my arm across my chest and bring it forth, to backhand Abel's cheek. I collapsed to my knees as he released me, swearing and wiping away the blood leaking from the cut left by my tarnished wedding band.

"Think not tha' I fo'got 'bout you, Abel," the last word escaped my lips as a weak sigh. "There's not a thing ya' can do to fix this. I only 'ope ou' daughta' neva' 'as ta' know wha' a horrid man 'er father turned ou' ta' be, and wha' 'appened 'cause of it".

"Come on up, Molly." He looked at me again, dolefully this time.

"You scorned me an' ou' daughta'! We don' need you! And I will neva' forgive you." I spat at his feet.

"Up wit' ya' now. We need ta' ge' ou befo' any a' them constables get 'ere. If your noise got me 'ere, it's certain ta' ge' 'em, too." His statement was true, and I did not want to get caught and thrown in shackles anymore than he did. Thus was the only reason I allowed him to assist me as we ran southward, knowing of a small town with marshes and brambles seemingly built to be a hide out.

"I wan' ya' te' know, Molly, I wasn' interested in Marian at all… I neva' wen' afta' 'er. She came ta' me." And his confession, though a small burden off my shoulders, became an immeasurable weight of sorrow. Where before I had every reason to claim my retribution, I now had none.

"Then why all tha' time ya' been spendin' in 'er _company_, eh? Wha' 'bout tha'?" I was assured he had an answer by the look on his face, but I wanted him to feel as responsible for what happened as I did.

"I neva' spen' no time wit' 'er. Molly, mo' lies, all of Compeyson's doin'. He's been behin' it all. I wan'ed ta' put a stop ta' 'im 'fore he ruined us, bu' with wha's 'appened now…" In that moment I knew that he loved me, his voice said it all.

We walked through a field of short grass in the moonlight. The ground was damp and squished beneath my boots, muddy with the recent rains of spring. The grass blew in the midnight wind, holding in itself a sense of quiet reverence. It bent and swayed as time slowed. Second by second passed as I saw him, the Abel who loved me, carrying me to safety. This was the Abel I had loved always, the Magwitch I had married, the man whose name I had taken and whose child I had boon. His slowly graying, dark hair was buffeted but the soft midnight breeze that blew dried leaves from the branches of a slowly dying oak tree.

It was a black void in the moonlight, its shadow cast on a field of smaller plant life. The oak stood rotting and alone, my new kindred spirit. I would have to separate myself, disappear into the background of the canvas that formed the painting of human life to protect people from my lack of self control. I feared I could kill again. My only option, it seemed, was to keep my uncontrollable emotions inside, to contain them. I would never release my emotions again for fear of losing hold. To do so, I would give up my voice.

We arrived at a crossroads. The path we were following would lead us to the town by sunrise, but, by cutting through the bramble patch ahead of us, we could cut that time by half. So, removing my apron and tying it about my hands, I followed Abel deep into the meshing twists of thorn bearing vines. Abel was cut here and there, the thorns leaving thin gashes. I, who was already bleeding, couldn't tell the difference the small scores made in my skin as we walked on.

We tread forward, passing through to a road that lead to the Three Jolly Bargemen, the local public house. We knew we would find refuge there, at least for the time being, so long as the little boy, no older than a two or three years, who stood in the middle of the walking path, got out of our way.

"PIP! Get ou' a' theses people's way! It'll be a thrashin' fer ya' if ya' don' listen!" A shrewd young woman with very piercing eyes came up and stared at us ruefully. The little boy's wonder was obvious, being that he had probably never seen anyone covered in blood and brambles. His eyes were wide, staring as he stood still, sucking his thumb.

"Pip, stop your starin'!" She whispered to him with a combination of anxiety and harshness, sensing perhaps we weren't the most wholesome of people to be seen around.

"Come now, we got ta' go see Joe now. Come!" She dragged the boy's collar and marched up to the pub, keeping her sharp eyes on us until the door closed behind her. Allowing her and the boy to distract us was a potentially fatal mistake, but whether or not she knew the constables were on their way is now of no consequence.

"Stop! Molly Magwitch, you are under arrest in suspicion for the murder of Marian Faa of Sout' London! Abel Magwitch, you are under arrest fo' mo' criminal accounts than I care ta' elaborate upon!" The constables were on us in an instant, clapping shackles on our wrists. Abel managed to knock off the men holding him down and bolted, yelling my name and some words that sounded like "ship" and "America". God be praised he made it there safely…

That was the last I saw of him.


	3. Chapter 3

Many a year later I came to be sitting here in Mr. Jaggers' home in London, thanking him graciously in my prayers every evening when finished with my work. My trial had gone successfully and I was acquitted.

Jaggers, a lawyer of some renown, managed to save me, but because my husband was gone I had no money to pay him. My life, and the life of my beloved daughter Estella, went to him. Where my daughter is now, I know not, for as soon as she passed into Jaggers' custody, he ran off with her. Only his reassurances that she is safe and happy keep me going.

I sit everyday in waiting, hoping for some word of my daughter's wellbeing from the many guests that frequent the house. As the maid, I serve the drinks and prepare and serve the food and am privy to much of the conversation that alights in the den and the dining room. I assured myself that all I had to do was wait for word, and one day word would come.

And so word did come one afternoon when a young man arrived as a dinner guest, the same young man, many years previous, had stood sucking his thumb in the middle of a dirt road, moments before my arrest. Now, he was all grown up, and quite handsome to boot.

A conversation arose between my master and the young man, talk of a past house guest and how he was courting a beautiful miss. The miss being my daughter. I delayed, that day, in my duties, for as I heard word of my daughter the slowly yellowing, white walls of Mr. Jaggers' home began to shine as the physical embodiment of my joy. I was so excited to hear word of the daughter I had lost. My daughter.

"So, Mr. Drummle has played his cards and come out with the pot!" Mr. Jaggers sipped the drink I had poured for him. It was mixed with haste, as I was so distracted, almost blinded by the elation their conversation had brought me. As I hoped he wouldn't notice, I reigned in my emotions, fearful that losing control, even of my happiness, might end in another catastrophe. I whimpered in remorse for my remembered crime and went up to my room.

My Estella was safe. I was pleased, and I needed sleep. But despite my freedom to relax in knowing my daughter was happy and in love, I could not shrug a nagging weight upon my consciousness. This weight's name was Abel. I had seen him last maybe a dozen or so years ago and I worried about him. Every evening I dreamed of him, if was not already ensconced in dreams of Estella. He was love so true, and without him my soul felt split in two. Only with him was I whole.

As far as I knew he was in America, and would stay there until such a time as his accusers died out. He would not risk entrapment for me, and I both hated and loved him for it. I hated how he was away from me, but loved that he remained safe.

Among all the other guests that frequented Jaggers' household Mr. Wemmick, a jolly man who served as Mr. Jaggers' assistant, stood out among my favorites. He always watched me, oddly, whenever he came to the doorway. At first it was strange and a little disconcerting, until one day he came to me and spoke calmly.

"Are you literate, Molly?" How he had even known my name was beyond me. It turns out Mr. Wemmick had been to my trials. And apparently, he was intent upon learning more about me. Why, I was oblivious. Perhaps he wished to know me better, surely a silent maid attracted some speculation. Perhaps he was under orders from Mr. Jaggers to befriend me (which I highly doubted). But, regardless, his small act of kindness as I nodded in reply would stay with me for the rest of my life.

I had vowed I would not speak ever again after the death of Marian. I would hold fast to that vow, except for short words exchanged with Mr. Jaggers from time to time, and the writing I intended to do in the leather bound journal Wemmick handed me, along with ink and a quill. Such extravagancies were rare in those days, and I never thought I would have the pleasure of feeling hard and smooth leather, loving the sensation of the tanned hide.

I looked up to him, saw him staring at my eyes and what felt like into my soul. I wouldn't have been surprised if he really were.

"You're welcome," he said. Nodding and stepping out the door, he looked at me questioningly as I opened the booklet and began to write in the curly swoops, hoops and twists that belong to the English I had loved writing as a child. Wemmick was a good man, I realized, as I began writing this history, my history...


	4. Chapter 4

My friendship with Wemmick grew into shared eye contact from me, greetings with 'hello's and 'how are you's from him. I would shrug or nod in response to any questions he would ask and such was the way we formed a friendship based not on vocal communication, but on a trust built of honesty, and not the deception that is inherent in audible words.

He watched for me whenever he was present in my master's home, goading me and making jokes until I loosened myself, against what I should have done, and laughed aloud. We were good friends, Wemmick and I, up until the point where he stopped frequenting the house. I inferred he was busy with his financial responsibilities, surely Mr. Jaggers kept him busy. Though I did not worry after his wellbeing, I mourned the void that grew within me where our friendship had once flourished.

After many weeks of sulking on my part, Mr. Wemmick returned to the house, now on a daily basis, though usually only to stay for a few minutes time. He ran about the halls of the house, and though he seldom spoke to me in those days, I knew he was troubled from the fretful look he wore.

On one such visit he mumbled words and worked furiously, muttering about a Mrs. Havisham, an old lady who lived in the town where I was apprehended so many years ago. He discussed the financial arrangements of her left over accounts, whatever money and land, wealth and trinkets, she had left behind. Mr. Jaggers told him to consult the will, follow it, and go no further.

Who the old woman was, I do not know, but her name sounded meaningful, important, but also as if it belonged to a world slowly decaying. Her name gave me an eerie feeling.

Nevertheless I continued with my duties, washing clothes and dishes, thinking to myself how I had never done any good in a capacity other than domestic help. Woe is me, I thought to myself, and I laughed, for my life really was not in shambles. No shame followed me. Mr. Jaggers had put a roof over my head, gave me clothing, food and drink. I was fortunate, and, for now, content.

My contentedness was shattered one evening when Mr. Wemmick returned to the house, to once again discuss business with my master; business concerning a deceased person of some importance, it seemed. I brought Mr. Jaggers' nightcap and a glass of water for Wemmick into the dining room.

"Concerning the estate, sir. Whatever was left behind, what will become of it?" Wemmick looked worried. I am fortunate, for had I known then that the person in question was in fact the handsome young man's benefactor, I would have disregarded the entire conversation from the beginning. But something nagged at my conscious, again. It smelled of someone I knew.

"Estate? The estate of whom Wemmick? My, you're speaking nonsense." Mr. Jaggers sipped his drink, a dark amber liquid bought from the payments stripped from the wages of those he had defended. What he did not realize, and what I knew, was that those people he had defended were now broken and homeless, living cramped, in slums.

I had begun to hate Jaggers long ago, when he took my daughter. But I closed that hate away, for fear it would overcome me in a fit of uncontrollable rage. Slowly, it festered, and I watched him sip his whiskey, the dark amber liquid like the blood of his clients, until he sapped the glass dry.

"The Estate of young Master Pip's benefactor, the _colonist_ Provis." I felt as if Wemmick was trying to get some hidden meaning across to Jaggers, to disguise something from me, for certainly he knew I was listening. I picked up Jaggers' empty glass.

"_Provis_? I know of no such man under our legal or financial guidance. Who is Provis?" Wemmick grew frazzled as it was made apparent by his questions that Jaggers had no idea whom Wemmick was speaking of.

"The _benefactor_, also known as Abel Magwitch, sir. You remember, he was, his sentence was, to be…put to death." Wemmick nearly whispered the end of the sentence, surely trying to prevent me from overhearing my husband's fate. How he made the connection between me and Abel, I'll never know. I stood still, framed by the doorway to the dining room.

"Why didn't you just come out and say so? The money goes to the crown, of course, as he was a convict and left behind no heirs. Though, I see no reason we might not take a small sum for ourselves, and surely some for young Pip" He spoke with a chuckle. "You know where to find the papers". Mr. Jaggers looked nothing short of devilish.

And I exploded in my rage, collapsed in my sorrow as the glass shattered in my tightened grasp. I screamed. As Jaggers turned his head to me I saw the lifeless, two timing bastard eye me up and down in disbelief. He stole my daughter. He stole my livelihood.

My passions exploded behind my eyelids as I closed them, relinquishing my lament in my tears. I cried as a release until my eyes were dry, Jaggers and Wemmick like statues, still in the dining room chairs, staring on in some silent shock. I stood.

I stepped over to where Jaggers sat and curtsied with the most disdainful expression I could muster, hoping my reproachful glare would peel back the wallpaper and the cuticles from his manicured fingers. I stared him down, stood straight up, and slapped him across the face. My wedding band cutting him in the exact place it had cut Abel. He bled.

"You filt'y scum" I seethed, the look on my face surely reeking of pain and misery. He looked at me in pity. I nearly spit and swore but held myself back. I had already lost too much control.

"Thankee for your kindness, sir…," I turned to Wemmick. He was nicer to me than any other human, save Abel, ever had been. I wanted none other than him to be the last person I thanked. I ran out the door and into the cold London rain. My footsteps echoed on the hard cobblestone streets. The sky was black.


	5. Chapter 5

I ran to the Thames. As I had heard that my husband nearly drowned, I decided to do so in his place. I heard the echo of footsteps behind me, and turned to see nothing but darkness. The only light on the road was provided by a street lamp, lone in the darkness, somehow keeping its flame alit in the heavy wetness of the downpour.

It was the last beacon of light for me, the last chance to change my mind. But I knew I had already decided my fate. I would be in control of my life. I would decide. Like the lamp, I now stood alone in the darkness. I wanted to join my husband in the light.

I stumbled onto the rocks banking the old river. Having removed my shoes, I leapt into the water and felt the chill go deep, to my bones. I looked upward, hating whatever god ruled those skies and screaming my dreams away into the dark rain clouds above me. They rippled and flowed as the lightening shocked and receded, toying with the atmosphere like some sadistic puppet master pulling at the strings of the innocent. The thunder rolled out and reverberated in my heart, echoing in the empty cavities left by my losses. My heart skipped a beat.

I dived deep into the chilling waters, holding my breath as I swam further beneath the surface. I saw the murky river bottom, my visions of Wemmick, Abel and Marian, and my daughter Estella, writhing in the weeds. All my lost loves and friends came to me in my death to make me suffer more than ever before.

"I'm sorry!" I yelled to them as they rose from the muddy river bed to take my hands. I screamed again, inaudible under water. They looked at me sadly as they knew, and I knew, my time had come. Estella, all grown up, and oh so beautiful, took my wrist and lead me downward.

Until my black hair wove a mask of blurry wisps around my face, I had thought I could go back, for I was terrified of death. I did not want to die, and as I screamed one last time, the last of the air left my lungs in a bubble that floated to the surface, glinting and rolling through the dark waters and reeds of the Thames.

I had made my decision and enacted my control, but with a foolish result. I would never see my daughter marry, never see my grandchildren. This last mistake compounded with the trail of tragedy that highlighted my life. My mind enclosed itself in a shroud of sorrow. As I blacked out, my final thoughts dissipated into the wet night and I swear I saw the image of someone soaking wet, probably Mr. Wemmick, coming down the river bank to hold me as I lay dying.


End file.
